


Didn't Catch You Saying Grace

by isozyme



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Cancer, Homophobic Slurs, Internalized Biphobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, No Aftercare; No Cuddles, Offscreen Anonymous Sex, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Smoking, Unsafe Sex, Your Faves Being Problematic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 19:04:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17048864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isozyme/pseuds/isozyme
Summary: Tony’s straight: he always picks women, not men, so he must be.  Steve’s gay, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.





	Didn't Catch You Saying Grace

**Author's Note:**

> These aren’t the nice gays you’re looking for.
> 
> Title from [Scuffle by Dessa.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYAEq3yDe3E)

Tony tells Steve and Thor that he’s dying with a smile on his face.  He grins so wide he gets dimples under the beard, a big, happy, painful expression.  It’s like seeing a flash of bone through an open wound.

It hits Steve like a brick to the chest.  The robes and the boxes and the attitude make sense, now.  Tony’s going to spend his last months the way he wants: comfortable, giving away his things, and mouthing off.

Steve finds himself staring at Tony’s skull, trying to bore through it to the thing that’s killing Tony.  Tony’s smiling again.  Steve’s so aware of his mouth.  Tony’s teeth are white and straight.  Everyone here has good teeth.  Across the Atlantic, you learned to talk around whatever dental fortune you got from God.  No, not across the ocean.  The past isn’t a place he can fly to.

Tony gives Steve his old helmet with a flourish.  It looks like it’s been through the wringer, even though it’s clean and the leather straps have been oiled until they’re supple.  As Steve’s fingers map the dome of the helmet, he can hear Tony’s heartbeat like it’s trying to fight its way out of his chest.  The sound is quick and soft and rushing.  

Steve’s starting to understand Tony, unwinding him like the guard schedule of an enemy base.  Tony gives people things to stop them from looking too closely.

Steve looks.  He sees desperate, agonizing loneliness.

Steve knows loneliness; he’s homesick for everyone he knows.  There’s an easy fix for both of them, if Tony is amenable.  Steve pins Tony with a stare, adding in _intent_.

“I…I don’t know what to say,” he says, letting his voice turn low and private.  “God, Tony.”

Tony’s heart rate jumps again and he looks away first.  The smile he hides in his glass is smaller and almost guilty.  Then he rallies with a toast.

Steve knows that kind of guilty hunger.  He’s left the continent where he knew the haunts and coded signs for what bars would give him what he wanted.  In France he could go somewhere to get lost in the anonymous touch of other men.  He doesn’t know where to start here in America.  The rules have changed while he was away.  Maybe he can have Tony instead.  Maybe Tony can have him too.

Steve waits for Thor and Jarvis to clear out and then wanders into Tony’s airy kitchen.  Tony’s standing in front of a well-stocked wine rack, graceful fingers dancing over the necks of dark bottles.

Tony sees Steve and startles, causing glass to clink under his hands.

“Steve!” he says, surprised but warm.  “Do you want red?  I’m having something with _body_ , I think.”  He winks, then pulls two wide-bowled wine glasses out of a cabinet, winding the fingers of one hand around both stems.  His purple robe falls loosely off of his shoulders.  Steve feels practically starched into his uniform in comparison.

Without waiting for Steve to specify red or otherwise, Tony goes back to perusing his wine collection.  He pulls two bottles, squints at the labels, then selects one more.

“Come here and help me pick which of these to open.  I won’t actually respect your wine opinions but arguing with your uncultured taste will make choosing easier for me.”

“It’s your wine,” Steve says.  “I’m sure you’re the expert.”

He comes over anyway, leaning into Tony’s personal space to read one of the labels.  He settles one hand over Tony’s hip, pressing him closer to the counter.  Tony’s robe slides silky-soft under Steve’s fingers.  Tony’s breath catches.  He smells expensive.

“Mmmm, homosocial leftovers from the forties.  I always wondered what the army was like.”

Steve uses Tony’s hip as leverage and turns Tony flush with his chest.  He wraps one hand around the back of Tony’s head, feeling the prickle of short hair at the nape of his neck and the phantom chill of Tony’s death waiting inside his skull.

Steve kisses Tony.  Tony gasps into his mouth, so Steve deepens the kiss.  Tony’s hands press into his chest and Steve hums in satisfaction.

Then the hands on Steve’s chest are pushing him away, and Tony is pulling back against Steve’s hand on his neck.  A chill runs up Steve’s spine and bunches up between his shoulder blades.

 _“What?”_ Tony hisses, wiping the back of his mouth on his wrist.  “The hell, Steve, I’m not gay.”

Steve blinks, mouth slack and stinging.  He echoes the unfamiliar word.  “Gay?”

“I don’t — I don’t — I see how you got the idea, sometimes people — but it’s a joke, an act.  I’m a modern man, Steve, I’m secure enough in my masculinity to compliment guys but, no, it’s not — I’m not attracted to men.   Are you gay?  How are _you_ gay?”

“I — yes,” Steve says roughly.  “Congratulations, now you know Captain America’s a cocksucker.”

He doesn’t understand.  Tony’s attracted to him; he can read it off of his body.  And it’s not prudishness, or not just that.  Steve’s heard Tony talk about sex, and he’s not shy.  This is going pear-shaped, and fast.

Tony flinches.  “You can’t say that word anymore,” he says carefully.

“The hell I can’t,” Steve growls, because he’s man enough to call it like it is.  He doesn’t have to like it but at least he can be honest.

“It’s, ah,” Tony waves one hand, always expressive with his gestures.  Steve hasn’t stepped away and Tony’s fingertips brush against the lapel of his uniform jacket.

“Not polite?”

“To say the least.”

Tony coughs into one fist and slides away from Steve, rummaging through kitchen drawers until he comes up with a corkscrew.  He snatches the nearest bottle of wine, careful deliberation abandoned.

Steve watches as Tony pushes the sleeves of his robe up and cuts the foil.  His forearms flex, marred only by the dark circles of ports embedded in his skin, where the Iron Man suit hooks into his flesh.  Steve settles his weight more rigidly underneath the set of his shoulders and doesn’t look afraid.  Tony doesn’t know how much power he has now that Steve’s laid himself out in the open.  And if Tony won’t admit out loud the things his body’s telling Steve, then Steve doesn’t have any leverage in turn.

“I need all of this,” Tony informs Steve, staring at the counter, one hand wrapped possessively around the neck of his wine bottle.  “You can get your own.  Pick of the collection, I’m not going to have time to drink it all anyway.”

Steve doesn’t want alcohol, he wants someone to _touch_ him.  Tony’s fidgeting, playing with the corkscrew, clearly unsettled.  He keeps running his teeth over his bottom lip like he’s trying to scrape the feeling out of it.  It’s just making his mouth redder.

“It’ll be bad for the Ultimates if you tell anyone,” Steve warns.  “You don’t want to be the man who lands Captain America with an involuntary discharge.”

Tony’s eyes snap to him, widening, and Steve realizes he’s said it with the threat of violence clear behind his tone.  

“Stand down, soldier,” Tony says, and yanks the cork free from the wine in a jerky series of motions.  “Nobody’s asking and I’m not telling.”

Steve nods once, stiffly.

Tony scrubs one hand through his goatee, eyebrows pinching together like he’s fighting back a headache.  He sighs, then adds, “But, Jesus Steve, you can’t just lay one on a guy, c’mon.”

Steve rolls his eyes.  “I don’t want to marry you, Tony.  I’m not taking you out first.  It’s an offer to fool around, not a proposal.”  He grins, the one that says he’s just a good ‘ol boy looking for a nice quick time, the one that draws men across the bar, then adjusts his tie.  “I’m good at it.”

“Look,” Tony says sharply, pouring a socially unacceptable amount of wine into his glass.  It’s full almost three quarters of the way to the top.  “I know the tabloids make me look like an airhead, and I _do_ work hard to maintain that reputation, but there’s three things I’m smart enough to avoid.  I don’t do IV drugs, I don’t pay for sex, and I don’t fuck around with men.”

That cuts, hot and slicing.  Steve tries not to recoil.  He doesn’t shrink back from blows; all the retreat’s been burnt out of him.

“Don’t ask again.”  Tony’s voice is quietly final, like the sound of a pin dropping from a grenade.  “I’m going upstairs with this,” he adds, waving the bottle of wine.  “Jarvis will show you the way out, if you can’t remember.”

 

 

***

 

 

Tony hunts Steve down after the Chicago incident just because he wants to talk to the guy.  Steve’s obviously miserable, not soothed by beating the snot out of Hank Pym.  Tony could have told him that wouldn’t work.  Tony knows a thing or two about solving problems by throwing explosives at them.

Steve’s a hard man to get alone, and Tony’s busy, so Tony tosses a GPS tracker into Steve’s coat pocket and resolves to ambush him when an opportune moment arises.

It’s pouring, rain sluicing down the sides of buildings and washing the city’s grime down with it, when Tony follows Steve to a bar.

The Loading Dock is a narrow little place, sprawling vertically instead of horizontally.  The bouncer gives Tony a slow once-over, neck to calves and back up again, before letting him in.  Tony takes off his sunglasses as soon as he’s inside, giving up on staying incognito.  This seems like the kind of place that takes a poor view of the press taking photos in any case.  Tony flicks rain off the lenses and  tucks them into his pocket.

When Tony sits down at the bar the bartender acknowledges him by raising his chin in a nod, then leans over to whisper in the ear of a man in enough leather to pass for a super villain.  They both look at Tony and exchange a look.

“Hey honey,” the bartender says, once he’s done pouring a few beers and sliding a set of shots off to the left.  “You look rich and nervy, what are you, Wall Street?  Real estate?  Banking, maybe.  I’ll take care of you, what do you want?”

“I’m looking for a friend, darling,” Tony says, prepared to give as good as he gets.  “Built, blonde, face looks like this all the time?”  Tony makes Steve’s favorite clenched-jaw stoic-in-the-face-of-death-and-idiots expression.

“Oh, him!  He’s a little ray of sunshine, isn’t he?  Handsome, though.  Good for you.”

“And vodka with a splash of soda,” Tony says.  “Plus whatever he wants,” Tony adds, waving down to the leather-wearing man.

“You’re too vanilla for Darryl, sweetheart.  Maybe once you’ve gotten your feet a little wetter, okay?”

Tony lets go of his hopes that he looked comfortable.  He wants to talk to Steve, clear the air between them, get things right-footed for the Ultimates.  Tony’s good at that, a people person through-and-through, so here he is, solving a people problem.

Tony’s halfway through his very strong vodka soda when he spots Steve’s shoulders through the crowd.  Steve doesn’t notice him, instead calling to the bartender.

“Xander!  Can I bum another one’a your smokes?”

Xander throws a dish towel over his shoulder and extracts a cigarette out from tight pants.  “Kiss,” he demands.

“I’ll buy you a drink, how ‘bout,” Steve says.

“Your friend over there’s looking at you with puppy dog eyes.  Go buy _him_ a drink.”

Steve sees Tony and goes statue-still.  Xander exchanges a quick silent conversation with at least three patrons at the bar.  Then Steve ducks his head and lights his cigarette.  “Sure,” he says.

The seats to either side of Tony are occupied, so Steve has to lean in close to Tony, resting one elbow on the bar.  Xander throws an ashtray at him, and Steve catches it neatly.  “He doesn’t like it if I drop ash on his floor.”

“You smoke?”

Steve regards his cigarette with a grimace.  “It’s a dirty, filthy habit, but, well, I’m here.”  He holds it out towards Tony, offering.

“No, I —“ Tony says, but he doesn’t know what he’s doing any longer.

Steve’s wearing light wash jeans and a white shirt that looks painted onto him.  His hair is messed up, the way it is right after he takes off his cowl, bangs falling half into his face, a little wet with sweat.  While Tony’s reaching for words, Steve stretches, cracks his jaw, and runs one thumb over the corner of his mouth.  Something in Tony’s mind clicks over and, _oh_ , Steve was — oh.

“Were you —“ Tony can’t make himself say it.

“Uh huh,” Steve says, shrugging and taking a drag.  He looks at Tony’s face and frowns, not liking what he sees.  “That’s not news to you.  What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you, square things up about Hank.”

Steve snorts.  “You could save that for team-meeting chat.  Besides, Jan’s chewed me out for that already, don’t worry.”

Tony can’t say the thing he wants, which is that he’s _lonely_ and Steve’s been holding his distance ever since they talked in the kitchen, just like Tony asked him to.  He’s tired and he feels sick half the time and nobody touches him but doctors.

Steve puts a hand out.  “Give me your wallet.”  Tony does it without even thinking about it.  Steve pulls out a handful of bills and tucks them under the ashtray, then stubs out his cigarette.

“C’mon, let’s talk this out somewhere where the walls don’t have ears.”

Behind the bar Xander _tsks_ and stalks away to pull a few more pints.

Tony knocks back the last of his drink and tries not to jerk when Steve grabs his hand and pulls.  Steve drags Tony up the stairs to the second floor, where they weave through scattered high-top tables towards a single-occupancy bathroom.

Inside the walls are plastered with graffiti and stickers advertising call boys.  Steve shuts the door behind them.  The lock situation is suboptimal — the lock in the doorknob obviously doesn’t work, then there’s a barrel bolt lock with the bolt missing, and finally a simple hook and eye latch, which Steve flips closed.

They have to stand close, and even so the backs of Tony’s knees knock against the edge of the toilet.

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Steve says, almost conversationally.

Tony’s heart is thrumming in his chest like a bird’s.  The fact that Steve knows that — has known every time he’s made Tony’s heart jump — crawls up Tony’s neck in a hot flush.  He’s trying not to think about what Steve was doing in the bar bathroom downstairs, with strangers, swapping skin and spit.

“Bit close in here,” Tony says.  “No sign saying Employees Must Wash Hands, pretty sure that’s a health code violation.”

Steve plants a hand low on Tony’s stomach, right above the button of his fly.  Tony shivers, and Steve smiles.  He wonders what else Steve is picking up from him; if Steve can see how the hairs on his arms are raised, feel his skin conductivity, the spike in blood pressure.  Steve’s bared him with just one touch.

“Tony Stark and Captain America walk into a gay bar,” Tony says, eyes locked on Steve’s hand.  “Sounds like the start of a really bad joke.”

“You didn’t turn around and walk out,” Steve observes, and his hand is _still there_ ; he hasn’t moved at all.

“I wanted to talk to you, you were here.  I’m always up for drinking in interesting places.”

Steve makes an unimpressed noise and lowers himself to his knees, hand still splayed against Tony, graceful and controlled in a way that makes Tony think of the battlefield.  The intent is clear, clear like ionomer resin, and it runs hot all through Tony.  He could, he really could, Steve is offering and his body is willing.

“What are you doing?” Tony asks, and that’s a stupid question, Tony Stark doesn’t ask stupid questions.

“Tell me the thing you want, or leave,” Steve orders.

Tony braces one hand against the far wall and shakes his head.  He should leave; he should push Steve away again.  Even though he’s clean and Steve’s blood won’t harbor pathogens, period, he doesn’t _do_ this.

“I told you not to ask again,” Tony warns, but it’s thin in his mouth.

Steve glares up at him, jaw set and angry.  “Just fucking admit it, Tony!”

It breaks him.

“Of course I want it!  Everyone wants this!” Tony shouts.  “I’m surrounded by beautiful people all the time, I’m not blind, I know when people are attractive.  Anyone would want your fucking mouth, but I like women, so that means I’m straight.  I pick women.  That’s a choice I had to make.”

“Not everyone can _pick_ ,” Steve says, eyes sharp.  “If I could pick women, do you think I’d _be_ here? Do you think I’d be on my knees for you?”

“No,” Tony says, feeling it shake all through him, because if Steve’s not attracted to women, not any women, then — the contrapositive means some people don’t _notice_ men either.  Not at all.  Not ever, even if they try.

Apparently, Steve is done talking.  He works Tony’s fly open, pulling his pants down just to the tops of his thighs, leaving his shirt hanging free.  When Steve sees that Tony is getting hard in his underwear, he looks up at Tony again, smug.  Tony grits his teeth and doesn’t close his eyes, even though he wants to, because he isn’t a coward.

Steve fists one hand in Tony’s shirt, and frees Tony’s cock.  If Tony’s being honest with himself, he wants to see this.

Unceremoniously, Steve spits on him.  Then he wraps a hand around Tony and works him the rest of the way hard. He raises one eyebrow at Tony, _ready?_

Tony can’t make himself nod, but apparently Steve doesn’t care, because he’s leaning in close, face relaxing into simple concentration.  It’s a good look on Steve, the same peace that falls over him the moment before he throws the shield, effortlessly calculating force and angles.

Then Steve makes a good faith effort to suck Tony’s brain out through his dick.  Steve’s had practice at this and it shows.  He’s not self-conscious either; he doesn’t care if he gets spit on his chin or sniffs inelegantly through his nose.

Tony puts one hand on Steve’s shoulder, steadying himself.  Steve’s skin is soft and unblemished, muscles hard under Tony’s fingers.

He wants Steve to touch him more, not just on his cock.  He feels like he’s spinning apart from the combination of pleasure and skin hunger.

“Please,” Tony says, sweeping the hand he has on Steve from his neck to his bicep, then up again, trying to demonstrate.  Steve slides one hand carefully up Tony’s thigh, slow like a question.  Tony nods, sighing into the touch.

It helps.  Tony knows exactly why he’s denied himself this for so long; now that he’s started it’ll be hard to stop.  If he can have Steve whenever he wants, if Steve will touch him when he asks, if Tony can look at Steve’s mouth and think _maybe later_ , well, then he’s fucked.

Steve’s hands are strong but gentle, always on him now, and Tony runs his fingers through Steve’s hair, thinking of how it was a mess earlier too, other men have done this _tonight_ , and _God_ , the rush of possessive lust he feels at that thought is overwhelming.

His body must give something away to Steve’s super-sense-stethoscope because Steve chooses that moment to swallow him deeper, his throat making an obscene noise as it hits Tony’s cock, and Tony can feel Steve’s breath on his pubic hair on every downstroke.  The feeling builds like a ziggurat, higher and higher one step at time until pleasure strikes him like the sun and he falls, helpless, into Steve’s mouth, shaking and swearing and insensate.

Steve pulls off him with a wet pop, then turns and spits in the toilet.

“Shit,” Tony says, out of his fucking depth, completely past the atoll, kicking in the void.

He just stands there, panting, for a minute.  Beside him, Steve stands and brushes off his knees, then wipes his face and hands briskly with toilet paper.  The paper towel dispenser is empty.

Someone pounds on the door.  “The bathroom for fucking is downstairs, assholes!  Some of us have to piss!”

To Tony’s surprise, Steve leans back on the wall and laughs, a simple, open sound.  “Welcome to the Loading Dock,” he says, a big smile sliding across his face.  “Everyone’s rude and the drinks are watered down unless Xander likes you.  You get used to it.”

Despite himself, Tony grins back.

“You can put your own dick away,” Steve adds, nodding at Tony’s messy crotch.

The guy waiting flips them the bird as they leave the bathroom.

Steve saunters down back to the first floor, trailing Tony behind him.  “Stay for another drink?”

“Think I’ll pass,” Tony says.  “The bartender looks like he wants to vivisect me in search of fresh gossip.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Still raining,” Tony observes.  “I’m going to call a car.”

Steve ducks his head out the door and squints at the sky.  “Gonna walk,” he decides aloud.  “See you around, Tony.”

Steve’s gait changes as soon as he steps out of the bar.  His hips lose all their sway and he leads with his shoulders instead, just another big guy headed home from his night shift.  As Tony watches Steve stops under an awning and produces a lighter and a cigarette from somewhere in his jeans, hunching over against the wind to protect the flame.

Trust Steve to bum cigarettes just to have something to barter instead of drinks.

Tony pulls out his cell phone and calls for a car, guilty and lonely and sated all at the same time.  He steps out into the rain and lets it drip steadily into his hair, trying to wash away the wanting.  It doesn’t work; now Steve’s under his skin.

When Tony looks back at the awning where Steve had been smoking, he’s moved on.

 


End file.
